Seamstress in training.

My insides now out,
I’m just sitting here
Staring at my suit of skin
And wondering-
Did I really wear that?
It’s seems so dirty now.
So shabby.
So…
could not possibly be mine…
Except for that longing to put it on again-
Which repulses me
And yet…
No.
It never fit.
Except perhaps on those days when the bloated ego
Wasn’t so much so…
Or the tears hadn’t run all over and stained it a bad shade of blue…
When compassion added color to it
And faith gave it a soft shimmer in the right light….
But mostly-
It never fit.
A patchwork quilt of hand me downs
From people I never met,
Ones I never knew-
Those who thought they knew me better…
As if I would have ever chosen to sew such a rag together-
And so tightly.
But not tight enough.
It stretched.
It began to fall off.
Or perhaps, I shrunk within it.
It left me cold.
And now I’m bare-
And that’s the whisper of comfort that lures me to walk around it,
My fingers softly touching the stitches…
I am, after all- exposed. Naked. Cold.
Open and unable to see myself clearly without my usual cloak of self.
I wish I knew how to sew.

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